Stockholm
by Michele McNally
Summary: Maggie was just a waitress with no extraordinary abilities. She'd resigned herself to a totally normal life, until the day a man named Gabriel sat down in her section.


Stockholm

A Heroes Fanfiction

Sylar/OC

Rated: M

You'd have to be stupid not to notice all the changes happening in people these days. The stories are on the news all the time. Mysterious sightings, unexplained deaths, incredible bouts of heroism. The signs are all there, but the truth is, people don't notice because they don't want to notice. They don't believe because they can't bring themselves to believe.

Or maybe they're afraid because they don't want to face the fact that they're not the ones who are special. People all over the world are melting toasters and they still cant figure out how to work the Tivo. We all want to be special. Its hard to face that were not.

But that's a very black and white way of looking at things. Maybe the truth is that we're all special, some of us are just special in a more eye-catching way. So I can't blow things up with my mind, la de da. I can do an _exact_ imitation of the women who plays Audrey in Little Shop of Horrors, and I'm not ticklish. Not at all. Feet, underarms, nothing. Who's to say that's not my special ability? I just wont have as many people shocked and amazed as the kid who can fly.

But still, my ability to stand up to feathers everywhere doesn't make me one of them. Nothing ever will. And I'm comfortable with that.

That doesn't mean I don't notice them. Honestly, if you're looking for them, there they are. They all walk around looking like they're about to spontaneously combust at any moment. Over-reaction if you ask me, since I doubt more than 20% of them actually are.

But when he walked into my diner for the first time, I didn't automatically know he was special. I didn't know he was a serial killer either. I guess I never pictured a serial killer eating his burger well done. I thought they all liked their meat on the rare side. I never even pictured a serial killer coming into a diner in the first place, but I guess even psychos have to eat.

***

"So, what can I get you?"

He didn't answer my question right away. I thought for a moment that he might need more time, but his menu lay closed on the table, under his folded hands. That was usually the signal that the customer was Ready To Order. I was about to ask if he'd heard me when he snapped out of whatever vacant space he'd previously found so interesting, and inclined his head ever so slightly in his direction.

"Just a cup of coffee."

Well, balls. Patty has an eight-top, most of whom are ordering steaks, and I'm stuck with a dollar-fifty cup of Joe. Even if they only tip her 15%, that was a lot more money than I was going to see tonight.

Take my advice: If you ever walk into a restaurant and it seems like they're closing, do not go in. Turn right back around and go find someplace that is open late. Just because a kitchen stays open until eleven o'clock does not mean that the staff will be tickled pink if you walk in at ten fifty-five. We will hate you. We will immediately attack your outfit, your date, your personal hygiene and probably your mother as soon as we're out of earshot. And if you do go into a restaurant at the end of the night, you'd better eat like a king and tip like a Rockefeller. DO NOT just order a cup of coffee and sit there for four refills staring into space.

That's what the magnificent Table Six did for forty-five minutes after we'd locked the door. All my other tables had closed out and gone home. Patty's high rollers were still there, but as long as they kept adding rum-and-cokes to their already large bill, she wasn't complaining. This is the point in the night where I think it would be perfectly reasonable to explain to the guests that were closing now, and they should finish their food and get the fuck out.

But my manager Mike is a pussy, and insulting a customer is his biggest fear, right after talking to girls. So I plaster on a big fake grin, despite the fact that Johnny Caffeine hadn't even looked at me in the six times Id been to the table, and head over to offer him yet another refill.

To my complete and utter rapture, he refuses.

"Is there anything else I can get you?" I ask sweetly, doing my best to imply that he should simply ask for the check and go home, leaving me to do the same.

"No," he says, and angels above begin to sing. "Just the check."

I take the little black book out of my apron and begin totaling up his refills. Normally we'd put one on the house, but as I could have been home a half an hour ago if he'd just had one cup, I'm not feeling particularly generous. The news is on the TV above the counter. There's a story about a huge house fire, and a little boy that had been found inside, completely unharmed. The reporter was calling it a miracle, but I knew it was one of those special people.

"Isn't that something?" I ask, attempting to make conversation while I calculated the tax and drew a little smiley face under my Thank You. "That little boy must be very _special."_

I have the little black book ready, and as I lay it on the table, he catches my wrist in his hand. For the first time since he walked into this place, he looks up at me. His eyes are dark, shadowed heavily by prominent eyebrows and the baseball cap he is wearing. Normally when a customer gets handsy with me, I can laugh and flirt my way out of it, but when he grabbed me I just froze.

He was attractive; there was no doubt about it. He had that two-days of stubble that I love on men. But there was something about the way he was looking at me that made me pause. It was like he was searching for something. I felt like I was being scanned, like he was trying to look inside of me. It made me uncomfortable, but I didn't look away.

"Something else I can do for you, mister?" I ask.

His dark eyes squint at me. "Interesting," he mutters as he releases my wrist.

I know that I should just walk away, leave him to pay his check so I can collect it, close out and go home, but I cant resist. This is the first shred of conversation Ive been offered all night besides hearing Patty talk about which hair color would look better on her. "Whats interesting?"

He was still staring up at me. I was still staring back. "You haven't looked away," he answered. "Most people would have looked away."

I smirked. "Eye contact is what makes a good waitress." He arched one of his dark eyebrows. He wasn't exactly asking me to elaborate, but I took license. "Bad waitresses list the specials to the tabletop. A good waitress looks everyone at the table in the eye right off the bat. Its harder than it sounds. Most people don't like to look at someone they've never met before. Most of the time once you make eye contact with a customer, he'll look down at his menu or his hands or his date."

"It makes people uncomfortable," he agreed, as if this was the reason he did it as well.

"Yeah, but see, if they look away like that, you've won. Its important when you're waiting tables to win. You have to establish that you're no one's servant. You're not going to scuttle around, eyes downcast, fetching water and anticipating the needs of your masters. You'll get them that extra bleu cheese they wanted, but only if they're damn nice to you."

"And have you ever been stared down?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Every once in a while you get some cocky little bastard looking for a staring contest. Its usually some no-neck jackass on a date, gearing up to assert his manhood by sending the poor little waitress for unnecessary napkins. They try, but I _always_ win."

It was at this moment that I realized that he hadn't looked away during our entire conversation. He was challenging me. But it was different. He wasn't staring me down in some banal pissing contest; he really was looking for something.

And even though this was about a 6.7 on my Freaky Shit Scale, I smiled. I didn't realize I was doing it until I saw the reflection of my grin in his dark brown eyes. And the moment I did, he began to blink as if he'd gotten something caught in his eye. He looked away, and then back to me sharply, as if he hadn't meant to acquiesce. I knew better than to gloat at my victory, and I backed away, still smiling.

"Have a good night, now," I said, heading over to the coffee station to finish wiping down my sugar canisters.

Less than a minute later the bell above the door alerted me to the fact that Table Six had left the building. I went back to the table to collect my last check of the evening, and I nearly dropped my coffee cup in surprise.

He'd given me a 200% tip.

***

Two weeks later, the Tale of Table Six had made it into my repertoire of crazy restaurant stories. Although by now, and mostly thanks to Patty, severely embellished. Still, it always elicited cooes of sympathy from my fellow waitresses, all of whom had a few odd encounters under their belts.

And then on one rainy Wednesday, an hour before closing, the bell about the door jingled and in walked Table Six, this time sans baseball cap, and sat down in my section.

We were dead because of the weather, and he was my only table. I was enjoying a particularly challenging crossword at the moment, and normally I would give my tables a few minutes to peruse the menu. But this was a man who knows what he wants. He didn't even open the menu the hostess had given him, and so I put my pencil behind my ear and walked up to the table.

He was looking up at me this time, and I smiled. It was a genuine smile, not my Approaching the Table Smile.

"Welcome back," I said. "More coffee?"

A slight upturning of his lips that may have been a smile appeared. "Yes," he said.

I'd brought the mug and the pot with me, and as I set his freshly poured cup of coffee on the table in front of him, he said, "Thank you."

I couldn't help myself. I laughed. It just sounded so rehearsed, like he'd been practicing it in the mirror before he got here. "No problem," I giggled. "Let me know if there's anything else I can get for you. If you're gonna drop twenty bucks again, I'd at least like to sell you some pie."

I left him alone to contemplate his coffee, checking in on him every once in a while, but mostly working on my crossword. On his third refill, he did have some pie.

The third time he came in was a week later. This time it was during the lunch rush. I set his coffee down on the table before I said hello.

"Good afternoon, Maggie," he greeted me after a covert glance at my name tag.

"Hey now," I said, impressed, "you're getting almost polite. Good for you. Pie?"

He smiled. Actually smiled. No teeth or anything, but the corners of his mouth went all the way up. He could be very cute when he wasn't being creepy.

"I think this time I'll have a burger. No fries."

"Wow!" I continued my sarcasm parade. "Getting crazy up in this piece! And how do you want that cooked?"

"Burn it."

"You got it." I started to turn away, but his voice stopped me.

"Maggie is a lovely name. Is it short for Margaret?"

"Um...no actually. Its kind of a nickname. My real name is Mariead."

"Mariead?" he repeated, and I flushed with embarrassment.

"Family name," I explained, thinking that this was the end of our conversation, but on he went.

"Are you very close with them?" he asked.

"I was. They're dead now." Cue sympathetic head-tilt. But he didn't say anything. He just looked at me with this look on his face, like tragedy was just the way of the world and I wouldn't be getting any tears from him. It was shocking, but refreshing at the same time. I glanced at the counter, but Mike was nowhere to be found. We were in the middle of lunch, I had three other tables all in need of something and I seriously shouldn't be doing this, but I sat down across from him, staring him down.

"You didn't say, 'I'm sorry,'" I told him. He looked surprised, so I continued. "No, listen. You tell someone that your whole family is dead and they say, I'm sorry. But the thing is; they're not sorry. They're just glad that they aren't you."

"Are you upset because I haven't said I'm sorry?" He still looked confused, as if this piece of human interaction was completely foreign to him.

"I'm not upset," I reassured him. "I think I prefer it that you haven't. Its more honest." I saw Mike giving me the fish eye, so I got up, but before I raced to Table Five to refill a couple of Pepsis, I turned back to him.

"You know, I still don't know your name."

He smiled again. "It's Gabriel."

As I headed back to the kitchen to put Gabriel's order in, I caught his reflection in the dessert case. He reached out toward the tiny pitcher of milk on the table across from him, and it slid into his hand like it was on wheels.

And that was how I knew he was special.

***

The next time he came in was one of my closing shifts again. When I left him his coffee I purposefully put the milk on the other side of the table, as far from him as I could get it. He looked up at me while I did it, but he didn't say anything to acknowledge the odd behavior. I walked away and pretended to be busy at the register, but I kept an eye on him.

When he was sure that I was the only one watching him, he stretched out his hand, and them milk moved towards him, just like it had on his last visit.

It was the single most amazing thing I had ever seen in my entire life. I mean, just because I knew there were people with supernatural abilities living among us didn't mean I had ever actually seen anything supernatural. I had lived a very sheltered life, full of Star Trek reruns and sci/fi novels, which is they only reason I even believed in telepathic powers in the first place. Then I followed some loser guy to New York City and was now a waitress in a diner. I was basically a living Journey lyric: Just a small town girl living in a lonely world. Where would I ever see something as badass as a guy who could move things with his mind?

I brought him his customary slice of pie, which he usually only ate half of. I suspect he only got it to make me happy.

"Can you do anything else?" I asked softly as I set down the plate.

"Yes," he said simply, not looking at me.

I smiled. "Cool."

***

Gabriel's fifth visit was the night my life as I knew it came to an end. Not to be dramatic; that's just what went down.

In addition to being a pussy, my manager Mike was a disgusting scumbag. He cares only about how much money the restaurant makes, and encourages the waitresses to have fun with the dress code, because he enjoys drooling over low-cut shirts and short shorts.

I hate him, I hate his restaurant, and if it hadn't been for the hope of occasionally seeing Gabriel, I would have quit already, as sad as that sounds. Most of the time I would like nothing more than to tell Mike to go fuck himself and shove my apron down his throat, if not for the fact that he'd probably get a hard-on from having something in his mouth that had been so close to my crotch.

On this particular night I was at the end of my rope. Gabriel hadn't come for coffee in nearly a month. I was convinced that I'd ruined everything by revealing that I knew his secret. He'd probably found some other diner in which to have awkward conversations with waitresses.

Mike had already yelled at me twice tonight. Once for not having all my side work done before the shift started, and once because I hadn't immediately cowered in fear at my first talkin' to. I knew he'd find a third excuse to discipline me before the night was out, and he kept calling me sweetheart, which I fucking hate.

To top it all off, the entire thing was making me irritable, and that was affecting my tips for the night. A big trucker at Table Three called me sweetheart about five minutes after Mike had, and I responded with, "no problem, sugar-lips." He proceeded to complain to Mike, who placated him by comping dessert. I was watching Mike irritably print the man's altered receipt, digging the refund out of the cash register and giving me a death glare when the door opened, and in walked Gabriel.

He sat down at Table Four, next to the trucker's date, who was looking very proud of her man and turned her nose up at me the second I went to greet my newest customer.

"You're back," I said. "I was afraid I wouldn't be seeing you much anymore.''

"I was out of town for a while," he smiled. "But I'm back now."

I was about to go get his coffee when the trucker returned to his table, grabbed his date by the arm, threw a parting glare at me and marched out the door. As soon as the bells stopped jingling, Mike appeared behind me.

"Maggie," he said, "I need to talk to you." He waved over a little blonde waitress named Jessie to take Gabriel's order and escorted me to the coffee station to have a little chat. He didn't take me into the office, which was a good sign. If I was about to get canned, it wouldn't be within plain sight of the customers.

"Listen," I started before he could say anything, "I know what you're gonna say. But I'm having a really tough week. Today's the anniversary of my parents deaths."

He cocked an eyebrow. "I thought last week when you spilled that bowl of soup on Table Four was the anniversary of your parents deaths."

Balls.

"Maggie, this isn't working," he said. "I've done my best with you, but you're a lost cause. You're a good waitress, but I just don't think you're a Mike's kind of girl.''

''Oh?'' I answered. ''What gave it away? Self esteem?''

''Lets not be petty. We've got two choices here. You can finish out your shift and then we'll just call it quits, or you and I can sit down in my office and figure out what we need to do to make you more of a team player.''

He put his hand on my shoulder. I looked down at that pudgy, greasy hand on my nice white, ironed button down (which, contrary to the dress code, was actually buttoned up) and I decided that I just couldn't take it anymore.

''I've got a better idea,'' I said, prying his fingers off my person. ''How about you go into your office and rub one out and let me do my fucking job?''

He blinked. ''Excuse me?''

''Or better yet,'' I called back as I began to walk away, not bothering to keep my voice down, ''why don't you take this job and shove it up your ass!'' I untied my apron and threw it at him, grabbing my bag and my jacket from under the counter. It was not the first time I had exited a job while giving the middle finger. God willing it won't be the last.

Once I was out on the street, I started to cry. I was not sad to be leaving, or afraid of being jobless. As stupid and pathetic as it sounds, I was actually upset that I would never see Gabriel again. I glanced back at the window, but he was no longer at his table.

''Maggie?''

And there it was. That soft, velvety voice that had ordered coffee from me on and off these past two months. I wiped the tears from my face and turned to face him. My hero. He didn't look like the comic-book heroes of my childhood. There were no brightly colored tights. He looked more like superheroes in movies now that they all dressed in black leather and had the bad boy thing working for them. He was even wearing one of those long black coats that fluttered in the wind.

''What happened?'' he asked.

I shrugged. ''He's a jerk. I put up with it too long.''

''Still was all that really necessary?''

''Hey, my sarcasm is the only weapon I have. We don't all have superpowers, you know. I'm sorry, though. I guess we wont be seeing each other much anymore."

''Well,'' he smirked. ''Not here, anyway. Here,'' he handed me a ten-dollar bill. ''I wanted to give you your tip.''

''You're not going to give it to Jessie?''

''Shes not a very good waitress. She didn't look me in the eye when she took my order.''

''Well, she's new. She'll learn.''

''Maggie,'' he said, his tone suddenly serious. ''Do you ever wish you could be more than you are?''

It was an odd question, but I could see where he was going with it. ''There's no point, Gabriel,'' I told him. ''Some people can do things, and some people can't. It's just the way the world works.''

Because I was probably never going to see him again, and because he was no longer my customer, and because he was very, very hot, a leaned in a kissed him on the cheek. And then I turned away, fully prepared to return to my empty apartment, away from Gabriel, away from telekinesis and telepathy.

And then strong, lean arms wrapped tightly around my body and a strong-smelling rag was pressed over my nose and mouth. I drew in a breath to scream, and then everything went black.

***

When I woke up it was dark. It was so dark that at first I didn't realize that I was awake. I moved and felt silk beneath me. The surface I was lying on dipped when I shifted my weight; it was clearly a bed. My heart was racing, and I was almost hyperventilating. Slowly my eyes began to adjust, and my breathing evened out. I made out the outline of a lamp next to the bed and I switched it on.

I was in a bedroom. The wooden headboard on the bed I lay on and the mahogany nightstand to my left were old and worn, but clean. They looked like they'd been recently restored. There were no windows, and the walls looked like they were made of metal. To the right there was a bookcase, full of books, and a chair with faded cushions. The sheets were peach and there was a soft down comforter folded up at the foot of the bed.

To my left beyond the nightstand was a door to a bathroom. Up ahead, past the moth-eaten area rug was a door. It didn't appear to be locked. As soon as I had my wits about me, I headed straight for it. I didn't know where I was, but I had to get out.

The door opened easily under my hand, but it didn't lead to the way out. Gabriel was on the other side, a glass of water in his hand.

''You're awake,'' he said.

I could see around him. The room in which he stood looked just like the one I'd woken up in. Metal walls, hardly any furniture. There was a large metal door with about seven locks on the far end, all designed to keep things in rather than out. Gabriel took a step into the bedroom, forcing me to back up. Now his quiet, mysterious demeanor didn't seem as sexy as it had in the diner. Now he was terrifying.

I thought for sure you would sleep through the night. He closed the door behind him and walked around me, setting the water down on the nightstand.

''Where am I?'' I demanded, trying not to sound as horrified as I felt.

''Your new home,'' he replied, as nonchalant as if I'd asked him the time. ''Don't you like it? It used to be a bomb shelter.''

The moment he said the words bomb shelter, I realized how trapped I was. I'd just quit my job, I had no friends, my ex and I still weren't talking, and my parents were dead. There was no one who would miss me. My landlord would probably just assume I skipped out on my rent, gather up all my meager possessions and pile them on the street for passing scavengers to rifle though. There was no one who would notice I was gone.

And then I realized that Gabriel knew this. I had told him all this. That I was completely alone in the world, that the only people I ever hung out with were the girls from work. And they would all be notified within twenty-four hours that I had quit and would think nothing of it if they never heard from me again.

''Oh my God,'' I breathed, and my knees buckled. Gabriel caught me before I hit the ground, and steered me toward the bed.

''You should drink some water,'' he said, offering me the glass. I drank it before the words ''poison'' or ''date-rape drug'' could pop into my clouded head. But what reason did he have to slip me a mickey? I was already completely at his mercy. He'd brought me here to be his next victim. I wondered how long he'd been stalking me.

''Why did you do this?'' I asked. ''Why did you bring me here?''

He squatted down in front of me so that our faces were nearly level. ''You're all alone, Maggie. Just like me. Only it's worse for you. All around you, people are developing these special abilities while you remain completely ordinary. I cant imagine being more alone than that. Now you don't have to be all by yourself.''

I blinked. Wow. ''Okay, Gabriel, if you don't want to be alone, you don't have to kidnap me. We could be friends. You could let me go...''

Up until then his face had seemed almost pleasant. Now his eyes darkened and his mouth drew into a tight line. I trailed off, afraid of making him angry.

''I cant let you go, Maggie. This is the only place you'll be safe.''

''Safe from what?''

''From people like me.''

''And does that include you?''

He grabbed me then, both his hands gripping my upper arms so hard that I was sure he would leave a bruise. ''Maggie, I would never hurt you!'' His long hands were wrapped around my arms to tightly that my hands were beginning to go numb.

''Gabriel!'' I cried. ''You're hurting me _now!''_

Once he realized what he was doing, he let me go. ''There's food in the kitchen. I'll let you look around.''

He walked out of the room. A few moments later I heard the huge metal door in the main room open and close. Several locks clicked into place, and he was gone.

I didn't see him again for three days.

***

After I was sure that he wasn't coming back anytime soon, I'd spent the first day tearing around the house, searching for a way out. There seemed to be no exit but the main door. I tore the kitchen apart looking for something to jimmy the locks with, but it looked like it had been made to withstand a nuclear blast. I gave up on trying to find a way out after my first night.

My second day was spent exploring. There was a closet in the bedroom full of dresses. All of them were light and floral. They were soft and feminine and arranged in the closet according to color. The two drawers at the base of the closet were filled with white cotton panties. There were no socks and no shoes.

I stayed in the clothing I'd arrived in. My bag and jacket were long gone, but I was still wearing my white button down and black pants, and my sturdy black non-slip shoes from work. I was beginning to smell, but I wouldn't change into a dress. Putting on the clothes seemed like giving in, and I still planned to scream and rail and protest as soon as he got back.

If he ever came back.

On the third day I decided to take a shower. My hair was starting to get greasy. The shower was one of those old, claw-footed bathtubs, a pipe with a spout running up, not even high enough for me to stand completely under the stream of water. There was a shower curtain that went around it, but everything in the vicinity of the tub still got wet.

He had stocked the bathroom with girly, flower-scented shampoos and soaps. There was even a razor, which surprised me. I thought sharp things were a no-no when it came to keeping hostages. But when I'd seen him first use his telekinesis he'd said he could do other things. He wouldn't have left me along with a package of razors if he wasn't certain that they wouldn't be a threat.

So I quashed my instinct to dismantle one of the Lady Bics and stick the blade under my tongue, and settled instead for shaving my legs.

When I got out of the shower, my clothes were gone. I'd left them folded on top of the toilet, fully intending to put them back on when I got out, but they were nowhere to be found. In their place was a folded pair of panties from the drawer in the closet, and a pink dress with white flowers.

I stood dripping, wrapped in a towel. I had no other choice but to put on the dress. I certainly wasn't about to waltz out there half-naked. He might have been totally silent when he stole my clothes and left me a party dress, but he was unconcerned with staying quiet now, and I could hear him banging around in the other room.

He was in the kitchen, rattling around with pots and pans, looking far too domestic for a kidnapper. He was wearing a light gray wife-beater and black pants. When I came in, he looked up and smiled.

''I made toast,'' he said, looking proud of himself. ''Have a seat. Juice?''

He poured me a glass of orange juice before I answered. ''What time is it?'' I asked, as these were clearly breakfast foods.

''Just past nine. I didn't expect you to be awake yet.''

He set down my toast and I raised my eyebrows. Truthfully I'd been up for hours. With no access to daylight I had no way of knowing what time it was. He seemed to realize this.

''I'll have to get you a clock.''

I watched him curiously as he poured another glass of juice for himself. Something was clearly not right upstairs with this guy. My first clue had been my abduction, but now he was puttering around the kitchen, trying to have a pleasant conversation with me as if he wasn't holding me against my will.

But I'd spent two days running around this place and I knew that the only way I could get out of here was to convince him to let me go. I could never kill him, or overpower him in any way. I would have to play along. I picked up my toast and took a bite, offering him a small smile, at which his entire face lit up.

''I'm sorry I've been away,'' he said, ''I missed you.''

He looked so happy to have companionship, like he'd been so lonely before I'd come. I could relate. In the six months since I'd broken up with my ex, I'd spent most of that time alone. I missed coming home to someone as well.

Whoa. Okay. Sympathy for the kidnapper. Not gonna happen.

But my brief time inside his shoes just solidified my instinct. He would never just let me go. I would have to trick him. I tried not to think about what would happen if I failed.

''Is it nice out today?'' I asked, keeping the smile on my face.

''It's a little cold, but the sun is shining.'' He slipped into the casual weather talk easily. Obviously the fact that I was a hostage didn't bother him at all. He was clearly unhinged. He'd probably convinced himself that my imprisonment had been my idea or something.

''Mm,'' I responded, remembering the feel of sun on my skin after three days in the dungeon. ''I miss the sun. I wish there were windows here.''

His hand twitched, almost clenching into a fist, but his features relaxed quickly. ''Yes, I'm afraid that's just not possible.'' He finished his juice and set the empty glass down on the table.

''Well, maybe we could go for a walk later. I could use some fresh air.''

This time his hand did make a fist. His empty juice glass cracked. But I shrugged, trying to keep my tone casual as I pushed my luck.

''You know, if I don't get any sun, I'll probably get sick.''

''There are sun lamps in the den,'' he responded thickly, his hand shaking.

I frowned. He'd already thought of that. ''How long were you planning on keeping me here?'' I asked.

The glass that had previously cracked now exploded, sending shards of glass flying. I screamed and tried to cover my face, but a piece whizzed by my face and cut my cheek.

''This is your home now!'' he shouted. ''I made it just for you!''

More glass exploded, but I didn't stick around to catch more of it with my face. I turned and ran towards the bedroom. The bathroom door had a lock on it, and I would barricade myself in there until he went away. But before I could reach the bedroom, the door slammed in my face. I rammed it with my shoulder, but it held fast and I slipped to the ground, clutching my injured arm and crying.

He was next to me before I heard him approach, and I tried to crawl away, but he was already crouched over me, blocking my escape.

''Some people can do things,'' he whispered to me, echoing the words I'd said to him just a few days ago, ''and some people can't.'' He took me by the arms again, his fingers aligning with the nearly-healed bruises he'd left there days ago. I whimpered as he pulled me closer to him, afraid of what he might do to me. Once he had me close he touched the bleeding cut on my face and I winced at the sting.

''It's not fair that some must remain so weak when others have abilities they don't deserve,'' he said. His face was inches from mine. His eyes flicked down at my chest and I was sure that he could hear my heart racing.

He took a handful of my hair tightly in his fist and pulled my face forward so that our foreheads touched. ''People like you don't stand a chance against people like me. Do you know how easily I could kill you?'' he asked, and I began to shake with fear.'' I could crush your skull with my bare hands, tear your heart out with my mind.''

His reminding me of how utterly helpless I was did not improve my mood. I had spent the last three days expecting at any moment to be raped or murdered or both, but neither of those things had happened to me and I couldn't help but wonder: What was he waiting for? His grip on my hair loosened a bit and I pulled my head back just far enough so that I could look into his eyes.

''Then why don't you?''

I don't know what insane Death Wish Fairy had fluttered into my consciousness and made me ask him that question, but I really wanted to know. If I was such an insignificant life-form, barely a cockroach when compared to the likes of him, then why did he keep me alive? Why not just stop playing games, end the suspense and get it over with?

After I'd asked the question he froze. The only sound now was my heart thudding in my ears. His eyes bore into mine so intensely that I wanted nothing more than to look away. But I had just asked the man who kidnapped me why he didn't just kill me. I couldn't look away. I had to at least meet his gaze and prove that I deserved to live. I didn't blink for so long that my eyes began to water and tears fell down my face.

And then his breath exploded out of him in a maniacal laugh. He let go of my hair and we both fell back onto the floor. ''I don't know,'' he said.

And I believed him.

***

Gabriel spent the whole day with me. Mostly he read to me, and asked me questions about myself, only some of which I answered. A few hours after dinner I began to get sleepy, and I curled up on the silk sheets of my bed.

Gabriel sat in the chair next to the bed, reading. He barely made a sound, but even with my back to him, I couldn't forget that he was there, watching me. Even though I was exhausted, I couldn't get to sleep knowing that he was still there.

After about an hour of pretending I was sleeping, I felt the mattress move as another body joined me in the bed. As if having him in the chair wasn't bad enough, as I felt him crawl closer to me my heart rate spiked. I'd already hypothesized that he could hear my heart beating. If it was true, he would know that I was awake and aware of his presence, but I kept my eyes clamped shut just in case. I felt his arms curl around me and I stiffened.

He turned me onto my back with more gentleness than I would have expected, and I braced myself for a sexual assault. But instead he continued to shift my position until my body was facing his. He drew my arm across his torso and tucked one of his arms under my head. My face curled into his neck and he wrapped his long arms around me. I went along with the arrangement, trying to figure out what he was doing. It was like he had seen a picture of lovers cuddling in a magazine somewhere, and he was trying to recreate it.

''Are you comfortable?'' he asked when we were both in place.

''How did you know I wasn't asleep?''

''Your heart is beating too fast for you to be asleep.''

''So you can hear my heartbeat. And move things with your mind.''

''Yes.''

''And you're very strong. And unusually quiet when you want to be. Anything else?''

''Yes.''

I sensed that this was the end of our conversation. My right arm was beginning to fall asleep so I shifted slightly, but I kept my other arm curled around his body. It was comfortable actually, and he smelled good. Having him this close didn't fill me with the same discomfort as when he was watching me from the chair. Like this I could almost pretend that I was in bed in Ian's apartment, the way we used to spend most Sunday mornings before he got up to paint.

And then suddenly, as if I'd dreamed of falling off a cliff, I jerked back to myself. I realized that I was allowing my kidnapper to touch me, hold me, even stroke my hair. I was dangerously close to becoming one of those women who fall in love with convicted murderers, who write them letters in prison and wear Christmas sweaters all year long.

By then he'd stopped stroking my hair. I couldn't hear heartbeats, but the rhythm of his breathing made me think he was asleep. I was afraid to move, and I lay there unblinking for a very long time. Soon he began to dream, clenching his hands and muttering in his sleep.

''Sylar,'' he murmured over and over.

He jerked awake, and stared at the room as if he didn't recognize it. Then he saw me and relaxed.

''What's Sylar?'' I asked him.

He grabbed my wrist so tightly that I cried out in pain. ''Where did you hear that name?'' he demanded, his voice sounding ugly and distorted.

He must have been groggy, because I wrenched my hand out of his grip and slapped him across the chest. ''Ow!'' I yelled. ''From you, jerk! You said it in your sleep!''

He looked down at the spot where I'd slapped him as if he'd grown a third arm from it. I was surprised that he didn't liquefy me with his brain. I decided he was still sleepy, so I grabbed a pillow and hit him with it. It bounced off his face, as ineffective as it would be on someone without super-strength. He didn't seem mad at all. The initial shock of my having hit him in the first place seemed to be working in my favor.

And then my Death Wish reared its ugly head again, and I just started hitting him. On his arms, on his face and on any part of him I could reach. He took my hits with no reaction whatsoever. He was kneeling on the bed staring down at the sheets as I slapped his down-turned face. And then all of a sudden his head snapped up and I went flying up against the headboard. It knocked the wind out of me and I landed on the bed, coughing. He was still kneeling on the other side of the mattress when I felt myself being lifted into the air.

Its very strange being lifted telekinetically. You can still feel hands gripping you, but they feel bigger and so much stronger. They held me up until my feet dangled six inches off the mattress. I waited for him to stretch his hand out and choke me Darth Vader-style, but he just let me hang there, kneeling beneath me like I was some idol and he was worshiping at my feet.

''Oh, knock it off!'' I shouted, and I fell down onto the mattress. ''You know, some people don't have fancy powers like that! They cant just sweep their hand to the side and make everything that's bothering them go away like magic!''

He got up off the bed and headed for the door. I grabbed the book he'd been reading earlier and threw it at him.

''Don't you walk away from me!'' I yelled as it bounced off his shoulder. ''Who's Sylar?''

For the second time I flew into the headboard. But this time I hit it higher. The top of it caught me in the small of the back and my head snapped back and cracked against the wall. I slumped down as my vision began to swim. Right before I blacked out completely, I saw Gabriel's face above me, looking down.

''I am Sylar,'' he spat, and then everything went black. Again.

***

When I woke up the lights were all off. My head felt like it was splitting open. It hurt to move. I was groggy and nauseous and I really wanted a glass of water, but I wasn't sure if I could get up.

Gabriel, or Sylar or whoever he was was gone. I was on my own. I got up as slowly as I could, but I still threw up as soon as I was upright. I at least managed to hit the concrete floor instead of the sheets, but I still wasn't looking forward to cleaning it up later.

I managed to drag myself to the kitchen for a glass of water. I tried to sit in one of the chairs but my back was bruised and I thought one of my ribs might be broken. The kitchen was a mess-- Sylar hadn't cleaned up after he'd made me dinner. The bedroom was in shambles. Our fight had left furniture overturned and the bedspread torn apart. The living room had a few overturned chairs in it as well, but he probably did that on his way out, just to be a jerk.

I wished I was at home in Montana, laid out on my parents couch, home sick with the flu and wrapped in blankets. All I would have had to do was call softly for my mother and she would be there with soup or tea or even just a hug to make me feel better. Ever since my mother had died, there wasn't a day that went by that I didn't miss her, but I never felt her absence more than when I was sick and there was no one to take care of me. Id nursed plenty of bugs with no one to make me soup but myself, but this was different. I could barely move. But I was alone. Sylar probably wouldn't be back for days.

I tried to clean up the bedroom as best I could. The smell of my own stale vomit almost made me retch again, but I had nothing left in my stomach. I didn't bother to straighten the sheets before I crawled back into the bed. I don't know how long I slept. In my clouded mind it didn't even occur to me that I might have a concussion and going back to sleep was probably the last thing I should do, but eventually I woke up again. I still didn't have a clock, and I had no idea of knowing if Id been unconscious for hours or for days.

I began to feel better eventually. My rib wasn't broken, and I still had a headache, but I could move around without wanting to hurl.

Three days went by, and Gabriel didn't come back. On the third day I finally did the dishes. On the fourth I shaved my legs.

When I got out of the shower I sat down next to the mirror. I was becoming obsessed with my own reflection. It was the only human face Id seen in the past few days. I was all alone and it was all my fault. I was completely dependent on Gabriel and Id agitated him, provoked him and pushed him past his limits. It was my fault that he left. Who knew if hed ever come back? There was nothing keeping him coming back to me. He could decide to abandon me at any moment.

The more days that went by without Gabriel, the more frightened I became that he would never come back. If he did return, I decided that I would have to keep him happy.

When Id arrived at this place, despite being run-down, it had been spotless. The bed had been made, all the mugs in the cabinets had their handles pointing in the same direction. My dresses with hung neatly and color-coded. My underwear had been folded. That was what he had to find when he returned. I worked hard to make the place pristine again.

I cleaned the entire apartment. I made the bed. I trimmed my own bangs. I brushed my hair until it was soft and shiny and put ribbons in it. But five more days went by and Gabriel still didn't come back. Every time I made myself a meal I cleaned the dishes and set them out to dry immediately, because I knew that he could come home at any moment, and I didn't want a sink full of dirty dishes to be the first thing he saw.

I jumped at every sound.

Some days, I sat for hours with my back against the door, imagining I could hear him standing outside, just waiting to undo the locks and come back to me.

I began to dream about him. Each night I put on one of the satin nightgowns he'd left me and crawled into bed, imagining I could feel his arms around me.

My dreams were not always innocent.

In them he almost always told me that he loved me, and that he was sorry he left me along for so long. He assured me that he'd never leave me again, and he would make love to me gently and sweetly. My dreams were so real that I could feel everything.

One night I woke up halfway through one of my dreams. Sweat covered my body, and I was far from satisfied. I threw the covers off of me in hopes of cooling off, but the room was stuffy and temperature was not the reason for the perspiration covering my skin.

The feel of his lips on my neck was still so vivid. I brought my hand up to touch the place on my neck that he'd been kissing in my dream.

But just because I was awake didn't mean the dream had to end. Lately the only company I had was what I could imagine. I moved my hands lower, slipping the straps of my nightgown down my shoulders, exposing my breasts to the air. My hands were smaller and softer than his, but I closed my eyes and they were his, stroking my breasts, toying with my nipples and feeling them harden.

I kept one hand on my left breast, and let the other one slide down my stomach. The feel of the satin on my skin felt so good, I wondered if this was what he had in mind when he left me my sleepwear. I imagined his face above me, looking down at me with those dark eyes, his mouth closing over my nipples. I stroked my hand across my inner thigh, my breathing coming faster.

''Gabriel,'' I moaned, imagining his lips kissing a burning path down my stomach.

My nightgown was bunched up above my hips, and my hand was at the waistband of my panties, but before my fingers could slip under the fabric, I felt a shock of pleasure between my legs, as if I was being stroked by invisible fingers.

I cried out and sat up, and the sensation went away as quickly as it had come. I looked around the room frantically, sure that Gabriel must be there. The door to the other room was wide open, but I couldn't see him, nor had I heard the heavy metal door open or close. I got up out of bed and walking to the doorway to peer into the other room. It was empty. I must have imagined the feeling.

I headed back to the bed to finish what Id started, when I felt it again. Like a finger stroking me through the light fabric of my underwear. The sensation caught me off-guard and my knees buckled. I collapsed to the floor.

The feeling repeated again and again, and I rolled over onto my back, spreading my legs to allow better access to something that wasn't there. And then I felt the same kind of sensation inside me, filling me like no man ever had. Like impossibly long fingers scraping in and out, touching every inch of me. All my limbs tensed, my toes curling as pressure began to build. My mouth was completely dry, I was having trouble breathing. Moans were tearing out of my throat at top volume. I was gasping Gabriel's name, my hands grabbing at my hair and my breasts, wishing that they were his hands, wishing I could feel his weight on top of me.

And then he was there, standing in the doorway, watching as I writhed on the floor. He was bare-chested and had blood all over his hands and torso. He didn't have a scratch on him; it clearly wasn't his blood. His eyes were dark and his mouth slightly open. He licked his lips and smirked. He was doing this to me, and I could do nothing to stop him. He was using me, playing with me like I was his toy. He flicked a finger in my direction and my nightgown pulled itself over my head. My hands went with it and I found my wrists pinned above my head.

He had taken any hope of control away from me. I couldn't reach down and push myself over the edge, nor could I pinch my arm to distract me from the sensations he was administering. He was in control now.

In all my fantasies, Gabriel's eyes were soft and full of love, and nothing like they were now. They were smug now, looking down at me reveling in the power he had over me. I felt disgusted that I was doing what he wanted me to do, but I couldn't help it. The way he looked at me now was nothing like the romance novel scenarios Id concocted in my head. His eyes made me feel dirty.

I tried to ignore the sensations rolling through my body. I held my breath and closed my eyes, but he only made his minstrations come faster and harder. Now I felt phantom hands on my breasts as well, pressure on my nipples. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, but the keening noises I was making didn't stop. Holding back was causing me agony and I began to cry.

Finally I gave up. I let go, opened my mouth and screamed his name, and as the pressure mounted, I looked over at him. He was smiling.

And just when the stars were about to explode behind my eyes, everything stopped.

I gasped. Id been so close. Another few seconds and I would have been hurled head-first into oblivion, and he'd pulled the rug out from under me. I clamped my legs shut, trying to create pressure, trying to bring myself back to the breaking point and beyond, but with my hands still trapped, there was nothing I could do.

He was kneeling over me then, his hands on either side of my waist. I was so sensitive that I jumped when his hands touched me. They left bloody hand prints under my ribcage.

''You've been dreaming of me,'' he purred.

His voice--the first human voice Id heard in weeks--sent shivers down my spine. I moaned, and arched my back, pressing my naked body into his bare, blood-covered chest. I could feel his erection pressing between my legs. He buried his face in my neck and bit down, not very gently. I felt an aftershock of pleasure and I shook.

''You've been dreaming about my hands on you, inside you.''

He gave me another aftershock, sending pleasure shooting down to my toes. This one nearly pushed me over the edge, but it was gone before the feeling overcame me. I cried out in frustration and tears welled up in my eyes.

''Whats wrong?'' he cooed dangerously. ''Do you want to come?'' He grabbed my hair and pulled my head back. ''Tell me you want to and I might let you.''

The tears overflowed. I wanted to. I wanted to come so badly, but I couldn't say those words.

His hands released me. I heard a belt buckle coming undone. His weight lifted off of me and cold air swept over my naked body. I wept at the absence of him. I felt vulnerable and alone without his body covering mine, but my hands were still trapped and I couldn't move. I closed my eyes and tried to hold onto the shivers and tremors that were slipping away from me, and I felt him stripping off my panties.

He took my ankles and spread them. He hadn't secured my legs telekinetically, and I could have kicked, but when I felt the warmth of his body return above me, I gave in.

''Stay with me now,''' he said, and I felt him send another tremor through me. This one was like a physical blow after coming down so much, and I jerked and twitched. There was a river between my thighs, and he reached a hand down to feel it. I shoved my hops forward, trying to drive his fingers deeper inside me, but he retreated.

''Tell me you want me.''

His right hand tangled in my hair, his left squeezed my right breast. His cock was poised up against my wet opening, but he''d pinned my hips. I couldnt move any closer to him.

''Say it.'''

He released my hands, but I didn't push him away. Instead I grabbed his shoulders, trying to pull him closer to me, but he was too strong.

''I hate you,'' I cried.

''That may be. But do you want me?''

He inched forward until I could feel him just barely inside me, and sent another shock of pleasure coursing through my body.

''Yes!'' I admitted tearfully, but this was not enough for him. He shook me by the hair and my eyes opened. I looked up at him and saw his eyes burning down at me, filled with lust and hatred.

''Yes, what?''

''Yes, I want you. I want you, Sylar!''

An animal sound ripped through his throat and he slammed into me.

That one thrust sent me hurtling off the edge he'd repeatedly brought me to. It was the most intense orgasm Id ever had in my entire life. My vision clouded, my entire body shook and I shrieked louder than I ever had when I was trying to escape, and when I came back to myself he was still thrusting into me furiously.

His head was thrown back in ecstasy. I wrapped my legs around his waist and he gasped as I took him deeper.

He grabbed my thighs and pulled my legs up against his chest, my ankles on either side of his neck. New pressure started building as our new position scraped the length of him against the most sensitive spot inside me.

It had taken my ex and three months of sleeping with me to find my spot, and Sylar had found it in ten minutes. This was the best sex of my life, and it was with a man I hated.

''Tell me you love me,'' he growled.

I didn't want to say it, but I didn't want him to stop either. ''I love you.''

He laughed, and spread my legs wider. I reached up and scratched my nails down his chest. He grabbed my wrists and held them down.

''Yes!'' he hissed. ''Fight me!'' He took one of my hands and pressed it up against his chest.'' Fight me! Hit me! Push me away!'' He slapped my thigh with a loud crack and I started to struggle. I pushed him with the hand he'd placed on his chest and tried to free my other wrist. I slapped him in the face, thumped against his chest with my fist.

''No! Really fight me! Try to get away!'' He was screaming now. ''Tell me to stop! Beg me!''

''Stop!'' I cried. ''Please stop! Please!''

The moment I said it, his excitement doubled. He started moving inside me harder and faster and laughing while I struggled against him.

''Bitch!'' he yelled.

My mind was beginning to clear. I was responding as vividly to this part of our game as he was. I was becoming more aware of the blood streaked across his body and now across mine.

Who''s blood was it?

I wasnt pretending anymore. I wanted him to stop. I wanted to get away. My fighting became real, but the harder I fought, the louder he laughed. I slapped him and pulled his hair, and kicked him has hard as I could.

He fell off me then, and I ran. I made it as far as the kitchen before I felt his hands grab me by the hips. He threw me into the table and I doubled over onto it, sending plates crashing to the floor. He twisted my arms behind my back and held my face down into the tabletop. With one foot he kicked my legs apart and entered me swiftly from behind.

I cried out, but not from pain or the disgust Id felt at seeing the blood. He was using his telekinesis again, sending me to the heights of pleasure.

And then he started talking to me.

''Is this what you dreamed about?'' he hissed into my ear. ''Being bent over a table and fucked like a whore? Is it everything you hoped it would be?''

I couldn't answer. The sounds coming out of my mouth were non-sensical.

''Oh God,'' I managed.

''That's right, good girl. Come for me.''

I screamed as the waves of pleasure swept me away. He flipped me over as I came and grabbed my thighs as he slammed into me.

''Here it comes,'' he cried.'' Look at me. _Look at me!''_

I looked into his eyes as he climaxed, shooting himself deep inside me. After a moment he collapsed on top of me, breathing hard.

There was a spoon in my back, but I didn't care. He rested his head on my breast and I buried my hands in his hair, inhaling the smell of his sweat.

***

I was in the shower when he came in. As always, I didn't hear him, but he pulled open the shower curtain and stared at me. He looked at my arms and legs, which were covered in bruises. I was sure I had more than I couldn't see as well.

''I hurt you,'' he said.

I allowed myself a little smile. ''I wasn't complaining.''

He was still naked, and he was still covered in blood, which had dried and caked, spread thinly across his body like war paint. I held out my hand to him and when he took it, I pulled him gently into the shower with me. I poured the least girly of all my sweet-smelling soaps onto a washcloth and began to wash the blood off of his limbs.

While I was scrubbing his leg he reached down and pulled me up to stand. He drew my face to him and kissed me gentler than he ever had in one of my dreams.

''Whose blood is it?'' I asked him, and he let go of me.

He took my hands and pressed them against his chest. ''Maggie,'' he said, ''there will be times when I will come home to you with blood on me. Don't ever ask me where it comes from again.''

I nodded.

I never knew that Sylar was the killer he turned out to be, but that was because I didn't want to know. I didn't notice because I didn't want to notice. I didn't believe because I couldn't bring myself to believe.

But in all the years that he killed, he never laid a hand on me. Later, people would ask me why he kept me. Ill never know the real reason, but I think he kept me so that he could pretend. Just like I could pretend, as long as he came home to me and held me and made love to me, that I really loved him. He could pretend that there was a part of him that wasn't evil. I think he needed one instance in his life where he could be good. He needed an opportunity to be gentle.

He needed someone to wash the blood off of him at the end of the day. He needed someone to tell him that she loved him.

Don't we all?


End file.
